


trigger warning: self-destructive behaviours

by nobodynoticeable



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Self Harm, im sorry this is a vent fic i have no idea where else to put it, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-30 12:44:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6424675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodynoticeable/pseuds/nobodynoticeable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this isn't about anything but myself. maybe i'll turn it into something someday, but for now i just need somewhere to post these things. it's all about anonymity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	trigger warning: self-destructive behaviours

idk. i do a lot of things to hurt myself.

i'm not particularly good at showering, although that's probably just because i'm lazy and don't want to bother with moisturisers and talcum powder and bras etc. i either eat too much or way too little; fluctuating between binge-eating chocolates and lollies and carbs and anything i can get my hands on, or going a day or two without eating anything but a bit of dinner each night. i stay up some nights, not to do homework or anything actually useful, just because i shouldn't sleep that night. maybe i ate that day like a greedy bitch, or had too big a sleep-in to consider good. there's cutting, of course, but i've sort of traded that recently for starving myself and pulling all-nighters. more effective that way. whenever i use a match, and i use them often, candles all over my room, i lean my head over and inhale the smoke, get it into my lungs, burning my nostrils and throat and everything else. it tastes and smells so sweet. the knowledge it could hurt me, could give me some illness, cause my death, just makes it so much better. a little treat, that's not such a treat in the long run. i don't outrightly burn myself on the matches, or the candles, but i frequently dip my fingertips into the molten - not cooling, molten - wax just for that little thrill, that pretence i might hurt myself. and it does hurt, for a bit, but not enough to leave a scar. 

scars are what matter. a lasting mark showing that i'm really, truly fucked up. if it doesn't scar, i haven't been hard enough on myself, haven't given me what i deserve. though i hate their hugeness and their wobble, my hips and the tops of my thighs are some of the favourite parts of my body. scattered across both thighs are fingernail markings, where a manic headmate fronted and gripped our thighs perfectly hard, just hard enough, apparently, to leave lasting scars, but not to draw blood. on my right thigh, there's a deep mark, of when i dug scissors into the flesh, and when i pull the skin, it's taut across that area. next to it, the word "FAKE" carved in, though the f is a bit faded, and it's hard to tell where the word begins, but it's there, so i've done my job. i'm worth a little for a moment.

my hips are littered with small shallow cuts. i could blame it on the bluntness of the scissors i use (they are very blunt, and the skin on my hips is tougher than wrists or thighs), but it's probably me, not wanting to cut harder, because the blood pooling and the scabs and the scars, damn do they look and feel so good, but i just don't have the courage to cut deeper. it hurts, and i wish i could deal with that hurt, but i can't.

it's not like i'm doing it to get attention, though god knows i need more of that, i'm just doing it because i deserve it. in fact, i go out of my way not to alarm anyone, not like i deserve their help, cutting where they can't see and missing meals they can't prove i miss. the binge-eating i shrug off as me being "that fatass" again, because which of you knows someone who doesn't like a good chocolate bar once in a while, and fat people are more likely to admit it, it's what you expect from us. i guess the all-nighters i do for attention, though. monitoring my progress though peach, using only the tired emotion on vent the next day, telling my friends about it. but i don't tell my parents. or siblings. because they have a chance to stop it, to take away my devices and such until i do sleep every night. to them, once in a while i'm sick, or i had a rough night's sleep. to them, i've only ever stayed up until 7am that one time in year 7, when i went back to sleep for 4 hours more.

truly, the aim of not eating, for me, is not solely to harm myself and punish myself, but to loose weight. everyone around me insinuates it; the avoidance, the looks, the smirks, the guffaws, the "oh darling, you're not fat, you're just overweight" from my mother at age nine. the scales tell me everything they can't say to my face: what kind of fatass weighs over 80kg at 15? who eats that much? who exercises that little? jesus christ, no wonder you've got so many stretch marks. go on, count em. maybe just the ones on your stomach. no, too many. breasts? too many. hips, too many. thighs, too many. fucking calves, too many. the only place i don't have an abundance of stretch marks is my ass, my tiny cellulite-d ass. there's only probably about 10 stretch marks max on those pasty cheeks, a lot compared to normal fucking people, but almost a failure in my eyes. if you're gonna be big, you've gotta be big right! no tiny ass, waist this big, gotta have a slightly heavier hourglass figure or you're fucked. pudgy fucking fingers that can't type, gotta go. everything's gotta be a perfect mix of tiny and large, tiny and large, or you're disgusting. i'm disgusting. no doubt.

i do a lot of things to hurt myself.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry again


End file.
